A gift of a bamboo rod and a cold front from the west

Aug. 7, 2009

An 18" brown trout caught by John Heider on the Au Sable's north branch.

Written by

John Heider with the first brown trout caught on John Long's bamboo flyrod gift. / John Heider

More

ADVERTISEMENT

An unexpected gift

It's mid-June, a number of years back, and I'm paddling my Necky kayak upstrem on the Au Sable from the Conner's Flats section. It's mid-afternoon on an unpardonably beautiful day: low 80s, a nice breeze from the northwest. I pass wrong-headed canoers going downstream. The easy way. A woman with a Budweiser in one hand, a cigarette in the other and tatoos covering her chest yells: "Honey, don't cha' know you're going the wrong way?" Her cackling laugh follows my 'yup'. Pioneers got the same question, I guess, as they headed off on the Oregon Trail.

Continuing upstream, not really knowing how far I've gone, I pause beneath a powerline and say hello to a demure chimney swift who's resting on the line that spans the river. At least I think it was a swift, I'm not much of an ornithologist. After an hour's somewhat strenuous paddling I come to a fork in the river. I take the seeminly lesser of two currents and head to the left. I later learn this is the South Branch of the Au Sable.

By now it's about 4 p.m., and even though it won't be dark for another six hours or so, there are no bugs around for my trouty friends. No yellow stone flies or other afternoon early summer hatch varities. Sometimes you feel you need to see some bugs on the water to make a cast - other times, correctly, you know that you can force the issue as it is. Put a fly out there and create an artificial bug hatch.

I make my way up the South Branch, past the last cabin for awhile, and decide to head downstream again when I see a nice rise about twenty yards upstream. I have buddy Carl Hueter's version of a yellow sally (stonefly) tied to some 5x leader, postulating that if there's any fly the fish are used to this time of day, it'd be this one. This is attached via hundreds of feet of leader, line, and backing to a Ross Reel which is attached to a very nice bamboo flyrod. The flyrod, a one-piece four-weight six-footer and a rather un-expected but surely appreciated gift from rod-maker John Long has yet to be used. I'm thinking, what a better way to christen it than on the Au Sable?

(Page 2 of 3)

As I'm floating this time without my jury-rigged anchor system and unable to slow or stop on the South Branch's modest flow, I decide to make a strafing run of the area where I've seen the rise. One pass by in the slow, cedar tree-canopied waters and I should be able to get three or four good drifts through the area.

On the fourth cast, as I begin to grow worried that I've missed the target area, I turn to head back upstream with my line still in the water and think of how I can paddle without spooking the fish - which has quickly inhaled the tiny fly. I'm alerted by the sound of a trouty gulp, a little splish and a bend in the six-foot rod.

I set the hook and begin to play a nice little trout. I mean a nice trout period.It darts and plunges a bit under my kayak and it feels solid on this cane rod. I've never played a fish with anything but graphite and fiberglass. This is fun. Feels more "alive" if that's possible. After realizing I can put some pressure on the fish without splintering this golden gift, I bring the foot-long brown trout to my net, photograph it and release it. I head back downstream, towards the main branch of the AuSable to fish the gray drake hatch later than night. Two gifts are appreciated in one day: the peaceful, plentiful waters of the Au Sable and a finely crafted bamboo rod from a friend.

The cold front shuts things down

Later that night, after catching a number of really nice brown trout while wading about a quarter mile below the flats section, I get back in my kayak to head upstream to fish less-crowded waters.Around 11 p.m. the truly big bugs begin to come off. In the isolating glare of my headlamp, the hexagenia wiggle out of their nymphal shucks. These are the giant Michigan Caddis which to the trout are a meal and not a snack that the average mayfly brings them. The air is still warm, the water almost as warm to the touch when I cusp a large mayfly in my palm and feel its vital energy.

I paddle my boat into the reeds about a half mile above the flats to change from a huge hex nymph to an equally-huge hex parachute dryfly. I've begun to hear the unmistakable inhaling slurps of trout picking these huge bugs off the surface of the water. The sounds aren't constant, but they're coming quick enough to make me hurry up my fly-change. I re-position my kayak in the middle of the river and weigh anchor. My five-pound dumbell "anchor" is just strong enough to keep me in the middle of the river.

(Page 3 of 3)

I listen intently to discern where the slurps are. Ten feet away? Forty? Above and slightly to the left? As I do this my eyes and ears are attracted to an ominous sky to the west. Somewhere east of Kalkaska, there's a storm approaching the Grayling area now. Fast. It seems like it's lining up to deliver its freight train of a rain to me, exposed, in this river. The distant sound of thunder choruses with the almost-constant flash of lightning. Hmmmm. Can I get a few fish in before this hits?

I continue to watch the skies as dark billowing clouds illuminated by the electric discharges roll in from the west. It's more interesting than the fishing that's not taking place. As the storm approaches, the air begins to stir, a breeze picks up and, rustling the pines, cedars and oaks along the banks, becomes a steady wind. Much cooler temps are ushered in on the breeze from the west.

Any bugs that were thinking of finishing up their life-cycle tonight decide against it as the temperature drops about 15 degrees in 20 minutes. The hatch of the hexagenia bugs ends as quickly as it had fitfully started. By around 1 a.m. I've hustled off the water and lugged my kayak to the roof of my car. Ten minutes after that it's raining as I head out of Grayling and stop for gas on M18 near St. Helens. In the light of the gas station I can see a few of the huge hexagenia mayflies which probably stuck their three inch long bodies to my car's hood back at Conner's Flats, holding on with their legs. Refusing to fly, even though I am, back to Ann Arbor.